


In This Lovin' Time

by Lauren_StDavid



Series: Beechwood Shorts [2]
Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Mild BDSM, Monthiversary, Recreational Drug Use, Schmoop, Smut, Spanking with riding crop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21846922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauren_StDavid/pseuds/Lauren_StDavid
Relationships: Mike Nesmith/Peter Tork
Series: Beechwood Shorts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1542475
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	In This Lovin' Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [70mtt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/70mtt/gifts).



Mike twitched at the mayfly on his forehead. No, the breeze wafting across his forehead. Warm breeze. Localized. Inside a house. What— _Oh._ The ‘breeze’ that was someone blowing his hair from his eye. Not someone. _Peter._ Mike’s lips turned up in a smile even as he flapped a lifeless hand to cut off the gentle stream of air. “Mmmhh?” was the best he could manage. He hefted up his right eyelid and assembled the colors and shapes beside the bed into Peter.

“ _Michael._ ” Peter stroked Mike’s hair back from his face, his fingers lingering, his skin warm.

Mike nuzzled into the sweetness of Peter’s hand. “Uh-huh, but gimme a minute there, shotgun. You wore me out with what ya got me doin’ to you last night. I need coffee.”

Both his eyes opened at least halfway when Peter produced a cup from behind his back and, as if conditioned, Mike’s body shoved itself into a sitting position against the headboard and his hand reached out for the cup. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his lips on their way to the rim of the cup. He took a mouthful, letting it bring him back to life, and paused, sniffing the coffee and looking into the cup. “Who made this?”

“I don’t know,” Peter replied. “No one’s in.”

Strange. Mike tried to work out the time by the light and gave up, squinting at his watch on the nightstand instead. Yeah, strange the others should be out just after nine on a Monday. He took another swallow of the coffee but still couldn’t work out whose it was.

“I don’t know who made that anymore than I know who left this.” Peter produced a gift bag from behind his back and took out the contents, placing the chunky rectangle across one cupped hand. It looked solid and squat and he untwisted the top of the paper wrapping it to reveal what looked like slab cake.

“Huh.” Mike was too busy mainlining coffee to take it in.

“What if everyone’s been kidnapped?” Peter continued

In most households, that’d be a lame joke. In theirs…well, they were probably overdue for a kidnapping. Cautious by nature, Mike had been more watchful than ever since being together with Peter. Now, a month into their relationship, he was still waking up in the night with a jolt, patting the bed to make sure Peter was there…because he still didn’t fully believe, didn’t entirely trust that they were MikeandPeter. Not quite yet. But he was getting there, and that made himandPeter proud.

Now he shot his darlin’ a look. “Kidnapped…you mean by the person or persons who made the coffee—”

“And tea.”

True—Peter smelled of aniseed. “And left pastries?” Mike eyed it, then his coffee. “In which case we probably shouldn’t have drunk the coffee. Or tea. We can sort this out in a little while, but for now, c’m here.”

He shifted for Peter to get into bed next to him, where he curled a hand around the back of his neck and drew him close for a kiss. “Good morning.” He got it in first. “Love you.” That too. He whispered this against Peter’s lips in a break from kissing him again, tasting him, catching the blend of their flavors, the chicory-and-herbal swirl a perfect replication of himandPeter. The action, simple as it was in itself was heavy with meaning in the scheme of things—of them—and never failed to ripple a thrill down Mike’s spine.

He opened his eyes, dropped a tiny peck on the up-tilted tip of Peter’s nose and settled back again. “Well, evil kidnappers or not, I’m finishing this. It’s really good. I don’t even think it’s our brand, babe!” He took another long appreciative sip of his drink. “So. There’s cake?”

“Oh, of _course_!” Peter eased the paper free of the mystery gift, revealing the chunky slab. He took Mike’s hand so both their fingers traced around the leaf design decorating the top of the present, the well-known leaf with its thin spiky green leaflets making a fan shape. “Not just _cake_. Space cake.”

“Space— Hash cake?” Mike bent to sniff it, but could detect only chocolate.

“And not just any space cake. Four Winds space cake. You know, the basket house coffee shop in the Village? I used to hang out there. Play there.”

“Don’t tell me.” Mike ran a quick finger down Peter’s nose, trying to take the smug off. “Not just any old Four Winds space cake—this is, what, the chocolate version?”

“The Northern Chocolate Log variety, to be exact.” Peter drew a finger along the side of the cake.

Mike waited to see if he’d offer him first taste, but Peter licked his finger, sampling the frosting, or whatever it was, himself. “And is there a southern blend too?”

“Think there’s a Southern Citrus Sugar version.” Peter took another pass along the cake and held out his finger for Mike to taste.

Mike did, then, his eyes on Peter, swiped at the cake himself, and traced over Peter’s lips with his finger. As he’d hoped, within a heartbeat Peter had opened his mouth and was licking and nibbling Mike’s finger, starting with the tip, then tonguing and sucking the whole finger and the inter-digital space between it and the next one. Mike loved Peter sucking on him, and hadn’t been shy about letting Peter know it. Peter’s mouth on it had him writhing as always, and he stayed the sly hand Peter slid low to cup his growing readiness. Peter could get him harder—and do it quicker—than anyone Mike had ever been with. It was fucken amazing.

He caught up to Peter’s words. Huh. Northern and southern varieties. Like them.

“Wicked cool present,” Peter observed, still cradling the hash cake as if it was his precious.

“If it’s from one of your old haunts, maybe Elizabeth left it after she came for dinner last night, before she went back to New York? As a thank-you?” She had a lot to thank them for, not least them spending the better part of a week saving her ass, what with Peter impersonating her. No, impersonating her alter ego. No— Mike gave up on that. It was a two-coffee thinker. “And, if anything, your ex-wife owes us for inspiring her bestsellers in the first place.”

“Or…we should thank her,” Peter shot back, glancing over at the pages of typed foolscap on his nightstand. “For…Hart and Kincaid.”

Mike tried not to, he really did, but felt the heat of a blush beating at his cheeks. Well, okay, the Hart and Kincaid roleplay they’d indulged in last night had been…off-the-charts. “And no, I still don’t agree with your suggestion that we tell Elizabeth further ideas. It’s like some weird kinda erotic feedback loop relayed through a third party, one you were _married_ to, for God’s sake, and I’d rather not get into it.” He raised a warning finger. “Okay, okay, maybe for the movie. Should there be one. And that’s only a maybe.”

Peter’s expression said he could persuade Mike into anything…and that they both knew it. “But I doubt she left this,” he said, setting the cake down. “Her thank-you gift is those tickets to London, remember?”

“From her publishers,” Mike corrected. He shook his head. “Working as researchers, _us_! And where in the world did Elizabeth cook up the idea of Kincaid being seconded to Scotland Yard? He’s a private eye, for Chrissake!”

“Oh, it stems from a case he worked as a Texas ranger.” Peter slid Mike’s cup from his hand and finished his coffee for him. “And Hart goes with him.” He raised the cup in salute before setting it down next to the cake.

“Yeahhh.” Mike spoke slowly. He was kinda nervous about Kincaid and Hart and him and Peter and Davy and Micky in swinging London, and not-so-swinging Manchester, what with them arranging to time the trip to coincide with Davy’s sister’s wedding, to which they were all invited. Oh, and they’d be playing a coupla gigs with the Warm Embrace. In theory, although with those guys, the practice could turn out to be a very different matter. “Well, London _is_ the new New York,” he mused.

“Funny.” Peter took his hand. “I thought New York was the new New Amsterdam.”

“There you go again with your book larnin’. Hey, if this trip goes well, you should persuade Elizabeth to set books all over Europe!” Peter loved to travel, Mike knew.

“Oh, I’m way ahead of you.” Peter’s eyes gleamed a topaz. “Fancy Madrid in the spring?”

“Oh, you got that wrong, babe. It’s Paris in the spring. Now who’s the uncultured one?” Mike refused to flinch when Peter tickled him in the ribs—until he did, holding up his hands in surrender. “Okay, you got the books smarts, but I got basic smarts. Fr’instance, I know that a gift bag usually has a gift tag with it. You musta been brung up in a barn, boy.”

“Nice alliteration. And a bit, yes, actually.” Peter blinked his overlong bangs from his eyes. “No, really! You’ll see it when we go there. For now, let’s put your theory to an empirical test…”

“Take your time there, shotgun.” Mike was enjoying the view, or, more precisely, the sight of Peter’s ass when Peter bent over the side of the bed to stretch for the bag abandoned on the floor earlier. “No need to rush.” Enjoying the sight so much, he figured he might as well treat himself to the feel, stroking the slopes of Peter’s ass in appreciation, first over the worm denim Peter as wearing, then by easing his fingers down the material covering those toned butt cheeks.

An, “Oh yes,” reached him from floor level.

“Yes?” Mike echoed, inching his fingers toward the waistband of Peter’s jeans.

“There’s a card.”

“Oh.” Mike pulled back so Peter could swing back up, loose-haired and pink-faced and gorgeous. He took the small square of card from him and read, ‘“Here’s a belated gift from the city that never sleeps. Sorry I couldn’t be present on the actual day but hope you like my presents.”

“Amanda,” they said at the same time.

“It’s her writing,” Mike confirmed.

“And what does she mean, she’s ‘taken the kids to work’ with her?” Peter asked, pointing to the next line.

“She’s got kids? And they got a workplace creche at _Minx_ magazine?” Mike wondered. He turned the card over. ‘“To San Francisco, actually. A magazine feature on the _beautiful people_.’ Oh, she means the others. Like, on some sorta assignment or feature? Maybe for that kooky column of hers.” _A Lady, A Broad._ He’d never forget that title.

“And look at this in Davy’s writing: ‘It’s all about beautiful people but don’t worry—I told Mick they’d make an exception for him.’” Peter laughed.

“And this. ‘Shut up, Davy’ in Mick’s writing.”

‘“So you have the place to yourselves until tomorrow afternoon. Enjoy!’” Peter finished.

That Amanda, the British chick staying with their neighbour, Toby, while she worked in LA for the summer, was once more back in Beechwood struck Mike. Amanda and Micky had gotten it on—he wouldn’t have said they’d gotten together, but what did he know? He laughed. “Hey, you think she took Mick with her as her partner, and Davy’s the third wheel?”

“I was wondering about Lola,” Peter replied. True the DJ and unofficial manager of the Duke Box, where the Monkees played regularly, had given Micky another chance, but…

“If you’re wonderin’ whether _Lola’s_ gonna be the third wheel in _that_ set-up…” Mike shook his head. “That’s a three-coffee thinker there, babe. And one best left alone.” Then the message’s meaning hit him like a beater striking a gong. “We got the pad to ourselves? So come on!” He stole a final kiss from Peter and stood, looking for his pj pants. Reality set in fast as he pulled on his robe. “Uh. I guess I better go check on things.”

Closing his eyes as he descended the helter-skelter stairs, he shuddered at the mess he was likely to find…until he opened his eyes to stare in bewilderment around the spotless kitchen and tidy den. _Woah._ He grabbed for Peter’s hand, making Peter juggle the cake he carried into the other. “How long were we asleep? No—how soundly?”

“You do sleep deeply these days.” Peter could have illustrated _smug_ on a chart of emotions.

“You make me.” Credit where credit was due. Mike scratched his chest fuzz and laughed to see Peter imitating him, bare-chested in those old and—oh, Lord—unfastened jeans. He caught sight of the calendar. August 11 bore a circle around it, scratched out, and another ring circled today’s date of Monday August 15. He nudged Peter. “Look.”

“What’s it mean? That it’s safe to have sex?” Peter mused.

Mike flipped back a month and a date leaped out at him, shaking up the whole thing to make sense. “July 11! That was when we got together. Our anniversary, okay, monthiversary”—he corrected before Peter could —“should have been August 11. And we were too busy to celebrate.”

“So everyone’s making sure we get to do it today.” Peter nodded and poured Mike more coffee without being prompted, _and_ before he got himself more tea. Mike…had to sit down.

“We really do got the place to ourselves as a present. We can do whatever we want! Say, what do grown-ups do when the kids are gone?”

“Turn their room into a hobbies room?” Peter suggested. “Or, in Mrs. Purdy’s case, turn it into a new nursery, for when her kid dumps _her_ kid on her?”

“Well, Micky and Davy aren’t gone for good, but we do have a little while to do grown-up things. Whatever they are,” Mike mused.

“Well, I could fix you a gin and tonic and you argue that’s there’s not enough gin and that it’s the wrong sort of tonic anyway,” came Peter’s suggestion. “Oh, and that the lemons should be cut into slices and not wedges.”

“Huh?”

“Then I could start musing on the historical roots of having fruit in drinks, touching on how outmoded a practice it is but that we cling to rites and rituals even when they’ve become divorced from and we’re ignorant of their origins. Oh, and with a sideswipe at tradition being merely superstition by stealth.”

“Peter, I gotto with ‘huh’ again to that,” Mike admitted.

“Oh, just something grown-ups do.”

Peter’s parents, his father in particular, had been on his mind recently, Mike knew. Maybe it was because Peter was in a relationship now, and comparing himself to his parents, and more so his father? Maybe this was something they should take up, and soon. But not today—

“Because you got one good point there—drinks!” Mike sprang up and went to the window, which he opened to reach through into the window box hooked onto its other side, and disinter the bottle of bourbon from its latest and best hiding place. He held it up in triumph before rinsing off any earth clinging to it and bringing it back to the table, where he poured them both a shot into their cups. “Breakfast of champions.”

Peter knocked his cup into Mike’s. “Bourbon in a coffee mug. For that authentic college professor experience.”

“Huh?” Mike said again.

“Why do you think they take a cup of tea or coffee into lectures and tutorials with them?”

“Gotta say, I’m kinda scared about meeting your father,” Mike confessed. He fetched a knife to cut some of the cake into easy-to-eat bite-sized squares and fed one to Peter, twining his foot around Peter’s, under the table. “Happy—”

“Monthiversary.” Peter fed him a piece too.

That proved a lot smoother than attempting to entwine their arms to drink. “Guess chicks have slimmer arms, ’cause this is easier in movies,” Mike admitted, squeezing out a large splash from his lapel.

“Oh, everything is!” Peter sounded irritated. “Kicking a door down. Dropping from a roof onto a horse’s back. Getting a parking space right outside the door of the building you’re going into. And don’t get me started on precision shooting—a guy just picks up a gun, never having fired one before, and lands a perfectly placed bullet on his target thirty feet away—and with no recoil? As if!”

Mike…wondered if Peter had made a list, at some point in his life. One he…added to, from time to time. But he felt too mellow to ask, preferring to chew another square of cake. “Square. Ha. Nothing square about this. So. All the other things we wanted to do…”

Peter’s face stopped looking annoyed and instead his lips twitched, making that button mole that intrigued Mike dance. “Which were mostly—”

“All,” Mike admitted.

“Sex.”

“In different parts of the pad.”

“Well, the parts we haven’t done it in yet,” Peter finished.

“So, let’s go reconnoitre the terrain.” Mike stood, and picked up their mugs.

With a muttered, “Love it when you talk military. I know I’ve asked you this before, but is there any chance you happened to keep the uniform?” Peter cut off a large chunk of cake and followed him.

Outside, they eyed the Monkeemobile, walked all around it, then eyed it again. Mike held Peter’s cup to his lips for him, and Peter fed Mike a nibble of cake.

“I know what you’re thinking, babe,” Mike whispered. He recalled Peter’s fantasy clear as day: ‘ _You bending me over the hood of the car, ripping my pants down, then screwing my brains out._ ’ “Does it have to be the hood? I think the trunk would work as well. Be about the right height for me to m—”

“Morning, boys!” called a voice. “Nice day for it.”

“Morning, Mrs. Homer. Sure is,” they called back in unison, and waved to their elderly neighbor as she ambled off, jerking her shopping basket on wheels in front of her.

“Hmm. I guess the car would have to be in the garage?” came Mike’s assessment. “Better check that out.” He squinted inside the vehicle as he passed it. “I know Davy’s made out a ton of times in this car, but with those bucket seats, how does he do it?”

Peter stood close to Mike to whisper right into his ear, “Ve- _ry_ _care_ -fully,” and Mike spat his drink out, all down the other lapel of his robe.

In the garage, Peter shook his head, finding the venue’s suitability wanting. “It’s too claustrophobic. Too…industrial.” He stuck a toe into Micky’s metal hoard. “I don’t find it…inspirational. Oooh, except…” He lifted something from a peg and held it up.

“Those old denim bib overalls?” Mike tried to recall the last time he’d worn them.

“With nothing underneath. And one strap hanging down,” Peter murmured.

“That’s very specific, there, shotgun. What… _Oh._ ” He remembered the last time he’d worn them. With…nothing underneath. And one strap hanging down. When Peter was due home, after being away with Micky, and Mike had wanted him to see—

“What I’d been missing? Really?” Peter picked the thought from Mike’s mind before Mike could squash it so small it couldn’t be detected even with a microscope. Peter’s eyes shone a warm amber in delight. “And I did see. See what I wanted. What I could have.”

“Babe…” Mike had to clear his throat. “You can have me anytime. ’Cause you got me, for all time.” And the kiss they shared was sweet and soft, despite the cramped, oil-smelling confines of their surroundings.

“We’re taking these.” Peter hung the dungaree overalls down his back over one shoulder and nudged Mike outside.

“Heh. Well, Goldilocks…” Mike squinted in the sudden light of the forecourt. “If the outdoors is too open for ya and the garage is too closed, maybe the pad’ll be just right?” He eased behind Peter, pressing close to nuzzle just under his ear, then suckle on the lobe before tracing the shell with his tongue tip. He loved the small sounds his actions wrung from Peter. “You getting horny?” he whispered.

Peter pressed back against him, unerringly finding where Mike was stirring. “ _You_ are,” he said. “And yeah, getting a nice buzz going here.”

Mike looped a hand around for a quick check. “So I see. And ‘buzz’? That what we’re calling it now?” He thudded his hip into the front door to close it behind them once they were inside. “Better go hang those in the No-Room.”

Shooting him a sidelong, somewhat suspicious, glance, Peter led the way, stopping inside the walk-in closet next to the kitchen. Mike switched on the light, making a soft glow diffuse throughout the space and light up Peter’s summer-blonder hair and summer-golden skin, grooving on the haze or buzz of arousal settling in. “I think there’s a hook up there you could hang these from,” he said, indicating the wall of the closet, way back, past the racks of clothes.

“Way up there?” Peter stretched on his bare tiptoes, feeling for the new hook Mike had screwed in a few days ago when Peter had been out. “Wh—”

He got no further before Mike whipped out a red bandana, one Peter recognized, and in a few seconds had Peter’s upstretched wrists crossed and trussed together and secured to the hook. “That’s why,” he husked, running his hands down Peter’s bare back and then around to his torso, where it faced the wall. While he might have been content to nibble at Peter’s neck, ending in a nip where Peter’s neck met his broad shoulder, he sensed Peter needed something more, something edgier, something Mike would of course provide. Was privileged to provide. And if Peter hadn’t needed this extra bite, this added spice, at this exact moment, well, it did no harm to keep him a little…off-balance.

So Mike scored his nails down, raking Peter’s nipples, feeling the shiver Peter gave in response.

“M-Michael?” Peter stuttered.

“This is why,” Mike clarified, sliding his hands around to the globes of Peter’s ass and freeing it from the still unbuttoned jeans he wore, letting them pool around his knees. “So I can pull down those tight pants you flaunt yourself in and—”

“And what, spank me?”

Oh Peter. How he enjoyed his defiance. As did Mike… “We’ve gone beyond that,” Mike informed him, enjoying the way Peter twisted around to track his movements when he moved to a shelf and felt at the back of it for the slim, supple item he’d stashed there, to pull it free and hold it in one hand. “We’re at the next level now.”

“A… _riding crop_?” Peter’s voice rose. His eyes tracked Mike’s movements when he slapped the crop down on the edge of a box. He swallowed. “How…how European.”

“Yeah. It’s fancy.” Mike eased behind Peter and stroked the end down his spine, resting it at the top of his cleft. “Got itself some fancy names for its parts, too. Did you know this end bit, here”— he flicked it down Peter’s ass cheek—“is called a tongue, or a keeper? Neat, huh?” He didn’t expect a reply and caressed Peter’s other butt cheek with it. “It’s been a while, but I reckon I could lay some sweet stripes on you, all neat and tidy, in a row together.”

Listening to Peter’s hitched breathing, Mike demonstrated where he’d leave four horizontal stripes, one above the other, by laying the crop in place, pulling it back and laying it again, four times, with just the slightest bit of spring. “I wouldn’t break the skin,” he breathed in Peter’s ear. “Just raise it, nice and deep pink to stripe your cheeky ass. And you know what more? I bet I could make you come just by cropping you.”

Seemed Peter did too, the way his cock was filling, untouched. “And Peter?” Mike had to swallow then, his throat drying as images filled his mind. “The thought of you wearing my stripes all day? Feeling them every time you sit, or stand, or move…” He should have moved back a little then, but wasn’t too proud to let Peter feel how he was as affected by the picture, by the _promise_ , as Peter was.

Peter was almost hyperventilating. He turned his head as far round on his shoulder as it would go and stared Mike in the eye. “Wh…” It took him a couple of times to get the word out, but when it came, it wasn’t the “Why?” or “What?” as another person would perhaps have demanded to know in that situation. No; Peter whispered, as Mike had anticipated, “ _When?_ ”

“Not today.” Mike chuckled as he returned the crop to its hiding place. “When you’re being a _real_ brat.”

“Promise?” Peter asked, unhooking his wrists and bringing his arms down, to untruss them from the cloth restraint.

“Always,” came Mike’s reply as he rested his face against Peter’s toned back, looping his arms around to run gentle fingers through the hair in the vee of Peter’s chest. He reached down to pull up Peter’s jeans for him—least he could do, seeing as how he’d been the one to slide them down.

It was a shame to cover Peter up, but Mike adored the sight of him in those old flared jeans and nothing else, his well-shaped feet and toned torso book-ending the faded blue denim. “Come on, darlin’. Let’s go mellow out.” He led the way, as Peter was looking a little dazed. _Good._

The haze of arousal thickened with every step Mike took, yet it wasn’t his usual fierce, urgent need to take Peter. This cloud had him grinning a dopey smile just to be with him and to be contemplating how best to bring him—and them—pleasure. Long, slow, endless pleasure. “You…feelin’ it, babe?” he asked, the most he could articulate the desire wrapping him, not buffeting him or burning him, like it normally did.

Peter’s unhurried nod and easy grin said he was too. “It’s what we said, that we never have time for, remember? Long, lazy make-out session and even longer exploratory sex.”

Mike’s grin spread farther across his face than he’d have thought possible, when he remembered. It was true. If it wasn’t time constraints, then the white-hot heat they stoked in each other tended to lead to the fast-paced, almost aggressive sex they both got off on. But if circumstances—and chemical assistance—permitted leisurely, loving, pleasure-bringing…

Mike caught Peter’s eye, and they both nodded. As one, they made their preparations—Mike removing Mr. Schneider’s eyeglasses, tying the blindfold from his top pocket around his eyes and replacing his eyewear, while Peter repositioned the stuffed chimp’s hands, making them cover its eyes. For good measure, he turned it around on its chair, so it faced the back rest.

Mike helped Peter to stand on the coffee table so they could survey the pad. “Now, where… Sundeck?”

Peter shook his head. “Done it.”

True. A few times, too. “Podium.”

“Done it.”

Yeah…behind the drumkit. And very, very quickly, with the others working in the garage. “Bathroom?”

“Done it.”

“Kitchen?”

“Done it. Oh, wait—” Peter smacked his hand against his forehead. “That wasn’t with you. Sorry.”

“The _hell?_ Shotgun, you— Oooh, you goddamn _brat_.” Fooled, Mike pointed a finger at Peter. “And no, not _that_ much of one though.” His turn to smirk.

“That’s good to know, to get a baseline reading.” Peter pointed back, mirroring Mike, but unable to keep the grin from his face. “Actually, maybe we should expand our range. Like to the make-out caves, on the beach? Davy does it there.”

“Or under the sundeck.” Mike nodded. “Micky says he’s done it there. Only we don’t know her and she lives in Canada.”

“Yeah…but I’m too relaxed to leave the house,” Peter said.

‘“Relaxed’, huh? In that case, I know just the thing…”

Peter looked where Mike was and caught on. Then it was a scramble to jump down from the table, run to the jukebox to select records, snag the bottle of bourbon and the cake, and both rush to settle in. Mike spread out his dressing gown to protect them from the hammock’s woven string before he lay down, and Peter climbed up carefully.

“’S’okay, there—I get seasick, not hammock-sick,” Mike assured him.

“It’s still a form of motion.” Peter made it swing a little, despite his care. “Well, maybe it’s the size that’s important, not the motion, you know?” He ignored Mike’s groan at the pun to continue in that mock-innocent voice of his, “Because this hammock is a double.”

Thankfully. They were both tall guys, and Peter was a little more built than Mike. Mike lay on his back and clasped Peter to his side, stifling giggles and wriggles as Peter played with his chest fuzz, twirling the hair into shapes and blowing it smooth again. “Yeah, that’s different in movies and on TV too,” he said. “You get a situation like this, and they’re reading, ya know? Like, both reading the same book on one person’s chest, or one’s trying to read and the other’s distracting him?”

“They do that before they get to the fun stuff. But why put off fun?” Peter eased a square of cake between Mike’s lips, for him to hold there so Peter could take tiny bites of it. Soon the piece was too small to eat any more of, so Peter pushed the last crumbs inside Mike’s mouth with his tongue, and they both sucked and swallowed at the sweetness coating the insides of their mouths as they kissed, tasting chocolate and pot and each other. Mike groped along the floor of the podium for the bottle, taking a gulp of bourbon when he found it, and leaning over Peter to transfer some, mouth to mouth. Peter blew Mike’s chest hair aside to bite his nipple in thanks.

“Slow, remember?” Mike reminded him, because he couldn’t prevent his body’s reaction to this.

“And languid,” Peter returned, blowing on the wetness he’d left.

 _Oh, the sneaky little…_ Mike cradled the back of Peter’s head, easing him up to the crook of Mike’s neck and barely settling him there before he started in on where the base of Peter’s neck met his shoulder. He knew how sensitive it was, how stimulating Peter found it when Mike treated it as his playground. Within a minute Peter was sighing out his pleasure and burrowing into Mike, who was taking his own sweet time, although time didn’t seem to mean much at the moment. It stretched and slowed and stopped and slid. Mike called a halt to his activities when Peter began to rut against his side.

Peter looked up through his tangled bangs, his eyes dazed and his lips in an adorable pout, and Mike stretched down to scoop up what was left of the slice of cake they’d brought over to the bandstand with them. He slid the last morsel between Peter’s lips and, considerate, licked them clean for him after. Peter rolled off a little, and Mike, unable to resist, opened Peter’s fly wider, pushing back the fabric either side to showcase Peter’s dick. He slipped his hand inside, relishing Peter’s breathy sigh, but stopped when he felt Peter’s stomach muscles contract and knew he was holding in a giggle.

Peter raised a hand out in front of him, the palm turned to him. “I’m just trying to see this from the outside.”

Mike tried to, to get a sense of how they must look, lounging at ease in the sunlight, both of them bare-chested, and his hand inside Peter’s open pants, cupping his balls.

“I kind of want this picture on our Christmas card,” Peter said.

 _Only Peter…_ Mike soon stopped his chatter by clasping a hand around Peter’s cock. He was hard, of course, yet there was no sense of urgency, not with him lying there, arms folded behind his head, like that. Mike worked him from root to tip slow and easy, all long glides and pleased murmurs, rather than the hard, tight pressure, the forced pace, and the dirty talk that pushed Peter fast and unstoppable over the edge.

Mike brushed his thumb over the slit, smearing the moisture there over the head and letting it dry before returning to his task. Soon, Peter’s moans were about as long and drawn-out as Mike’s strokes.

“Love you jerking me off,” Peter whispered. He shifted slightly, to look at Mike. “What?”

“I used to think about you, when I was jacking off,” Mike confessed.

“ _Ohh_.” Peter sounded like he’d been given a treat. “Tell me?”

“Not now. This is…” Soft and languorous, whereas Mike had pictured Peter clawing at the sheets under him, his eyes closed in pleasure-pain, his mouth hanging open for his hoarse voice to scream out Mike’s name, and his whole body flushed dark pink and sweaty and writhing as he took Mike cock’s deeper than anyone had ever before. “ _Different_ ,” he finished, trusting Peter would understand.

Mike continued his lazy strokes, in time with the deep kisses he pressed on Peter, kisses that Peter returned, until Peter’s deeper sighs and catching breaths told them both he was coming to the edge. Mike stilled. “Still love getting fingered?” he asked.

“No.” Peter opened his eyes wide. “I still fucken love it.”

Mike felt for his robe, spread out under them, and the right pocket—more precisely, for the lube it held.

“Magic pocket,” Peter half sang, watching him. “Papa Nez. Always has everything that’s needed.”

“You calling me Daddy?” Mike couldn’t resist asking. He pulled Peter’s languid body into a better position, inching his jeans down farther as he did so. He slotted the tube he’d fished out between Peter’s fingers, for him to squeeze out a glob onto Mike’s. His movements felt flowing and seamless as he danced his fingers back from Peter’s balls to his ass and Peter’s chest heaved when Mike circled his hole, then slid in. There was little resistance, not after how hot and heavy they’d gone at it last night.

Peter pushed back onto Mike’s touch, as smoothly and naturally as the sigh that eased out of him as he did so. Mike lay half on Peter, giving the nipple nearest to his mouth the smallest but sharpest of bites, accompanying the presses of his fingers, curving and teasing over the bump of Peter’s gland inside him.

“Oh, _Jesus_ ,” Peter breathed out, a few minutes or hours later, when Mike changed his strokes to make every third pass a rub. It made every third exhalation of Peter’s thinner and shorter, in parallel, and his hands were now gripping the mesh of the hammock. Yet the pace still felt leisured, unrushed. “I’m…I don’t know, tingling? All through my veins,” Peter said. “Like a prickle of fire, catching the edges.”

“I know.” Mike took in the mid-pink blush stealing over Peter, and the sweat beginning to dot his temples and neck. Happy he was bringing this stream of pleasure to wash over him, Mike kept his fingers in place, inside Peter, adding a third and tapping the prostate. Peter arched and Mike pressed his body into Peter’s, his stomach providing the friction Peter needed on his cock, although Mike wondered if Peter would come from prostate play alone—he had before.

But here, now, Peter undulated in the longest and slowest of waves, flowing effortlessly, inevitably until his mouth fell open and his eyes went wide as his cock pulsed and smeared their skin with cum. Mike pulled out of Peter’s body and luxuriated in the sight of him, his blown pupils, his flushed skin, his long breaths, his lips tilting upwards in a dawning smile. He pressed his mouth to Mike’s, catching it in an unhurried kiss, gentle and soft, conveying through it everything he was feeling, then rested his forehead against Mike’s, while they both regrouped.

Now Mike bit back a laugh. “Oh, nothing,” he reassured Peter. “Just, thinking if we go with your Christmas card picture idea, would that be the before and this the after?”

“Nice surprise for when people open the card, or turn it to the back,” Peter agreed, snorting.

Mike tugged a handkerchief free from the pocket of his robe, to clean them up. He glanced around at the dappled patches of shifting light, trying to see how far the sun had moved.

“I don’t know how long we’ve been here,” Peter said, guessing his thoughts. “Do you need to move?”

Mike wasn’t as used to the hammock as Peter was, or as flexible. “I guess.” He helped Peter out, holding him carefully—Peter was too blissed-out to co-ordinate and clung to Mike.

“Two-Monkee Monkee pile?” Peter glanced at the floor space.

“No…I need a bed and a blow job.” Mike moved as gingerly as Peter, mindful of his cramped back and raging hard-on.

“Hmm, you need bed and head?” Peter giggled. He glanced down at Mike. “As they say, you’ll never get that up the stairs. I know a place nearby. Come on.”

He led Mike into the downstairs bedroom where, working as one, they pushed the two beds together and…Mike lay across them. Peter looked across at Mike, frowning. “Why did you… This seems familiar. You, lying here like that?”

“I don’t know. And yeah, it kinda does.” Mike considered, with what brain power he had to spare. The head on his shoulders wasn’t getting much blood supplied to it at the moment, seeing as how it was all diverted to the one between his legs. He made sure the bourbon was within reach.

“Maybe we dreamed it. Both had the same dream? Do you think two people can share dreams? ’Cause that’s far-out!” Peter joined him.

“Ahem.” Mike indicated his…predicament. “Less philosophizing, more lovin’?”

“Sure…” Peter’s voice came a little muffled as he pushed himself down the bed and eased Mike’s pants down too. “Amazing, all that bourbon you shipped and no sign of whiskey dick.”

No. Mike was a little buzzed, but not too wrecked and very, very erect. He felt totally present and his skin zinged with anticipation, or arousal—or dope. He didn’t care, just knew he loved it. Peter tried to surprise him by sliding back up to kiss him, but Mike sensed his intent and so their mouths met in a tender kiss that soon turned thick and heavy.

“Love kissing you,” Mike whispered, when they stopped for breath. “Or you kissing me.” He knew what he meant. He loved that Peter was as into it as he was, not holding back, his lips and tongue a perfect match for Mike’s.

Peter leaned over him. “Bet you want this slow. Want me make it last.”

Mike saw the flare of challenge in Peter’s eyes, making them a dark amber. He scrunched up the blankets and sheets under him, then grabbed a pillow, to prop his top half up, stating without words that he’d be watching. “I can take anything you can give me,” he assured Peter, even if it wasn’t true. Peter was very skilled, capable of curling the tip of his tongue to stroke the roof of Mike’s mouth, when they kissed, or tormenting the head of Mike’s dick, when he blew him.

The sly, wry twist to Peter’s lips said he knew Mike was bluffing, and that he was calling it, starting with the sucking kisses he dotted over Mike’s torso and the longer ones he left on Mike’s stomach. He dipped his wicked tongue into Mike’s navel, making him writhe with anticipation, especially when he grazed Mike’s abdomen with his unshaven cheek.

Mike puzzled for a second when Peter stopped and heaved himself up the bed, to sweep a hand onto the floor, but understood when Peter took up the whiskey bottle and helped himself to a glug. He swallowed, but left enough in his mouth so that when he pulled Mike’s pj pants low and encircled the head of Mike’s glistening, throbbing dick with his lips, Mike felt the sting of the alcohol and squirmed, despite trying not to. And when Peter took his dick all the way to the back of his throat, Mike moaned, long and loud.

He pulsed in Peter’s mouth when Peter sucked, and shivered when Peter caressed his balls. And then, just before Mike could beg Peter to ease off, to take it slow, make it sweet, Peter did. Mike lay flat on his back, threading his fingers into the silk of Peter’s hair as Peter lay between his legs, resting his head on Mike’s stomach, to pleasure him.

And Jesus, what pleasure Peter brought, licking, nibbling and sucking, his touch delicate, the friction perfect even when he changed the pressure of his lips and mouth and throat. _Toying_ , was the verb that came to Mike’s mind, as if written there, blinking off and on like a sign, when Peter lapped at the pre-cum his expert touch released, or purred in the back of his throat with satisfaction at what he was doing, like making Mike shudder at the catch of a rough-velvet tongue on the ridged band just below the head of his dick.

And it was as leisurely and lazy and effortless as earlier, when Mike had loved on Peter, a stream of sensation rippling over Mike or one continuous one on which he coasted; he wasn’t sure. He felt melded to Peter, that they were part of each other, so he wasn’t sure where he left off and Peter began. A shoreline-and-sea blending, toing and froing, ebbing and flowing, until Peter, hours or maybe a day later, firmed up the velvet-soft constriction around Mike’s cock. He took him deep at the same time as he sneaked two lubed-in-cum fingers into Mike’s ass, pulling him to the summit—no; the shore, draining and drying him.

“Shipwrecked. Not _wrecked_ ,” Mike tried to explain, when all the pieces of him had re-formed, fused together again and his voice and brain worked—sort of.

Peter looked confused. He gargled with some more bourbon, shuddering at the taste, and asked, “Huh?”

Mike raised a rubbery arm to stroke him. “Not exactly wrung-out. Inside-out? I don’t know. But it’s groovy,” he insisted, as if imparting a secret. He was content to lie there, looking up at Peter sitting cross-legged next to him.

“I know,” Peter replied, grinning, so Mike must have said the quiet part loud. “But we’re gonna be so hungry so very soon.”

Mike was trying to work that out but switched to working out what the knocking noise was instead. “Someone at the door!” He felt proud of himself for solving that, and prouder still for being able to get to his feet, hitch up his pants and find a tee to pull on, on his way through the house. He wasn’t in time to catch the visitor, but twisted down to pick up the flat white box left on the step.

“ _Pizza!_ ” Peter exclaimed, when Mike wandered back into the den with it. “Of course!” He vanished for a second, unvanishing with blankets and pillows that he spread on the floor.

“Pop’s pizza,” Mike corrected, tracing the words on the box with a finger. “Good idea.”

“Yes, it was.” Peter flicked open the lid and grabbed a slice.

“What?” Mike finally decoded Peter’s tone. “Didn’t you order it?”

Peter shook his head, his mouth crammed too full to talk.

“Well, I didn’t. So who…”

“The monthiversary fairies,” came almost indistinctly around the cheese and tomato.

Mike laughed. “You better not go calling Davy and Micky fairies there, shotgun. Least not if you— Oh no. This…isn’t a Micky Special, is it?”

He didn’t think he could cope with Micky’s Easy Wednesday macaroni and cheese delight, or the English Breakfast recipe Micky had invented for Davy, which had fried eggs, alternate strips of bacon and halved sausages, and little heaps of baked beans. And as for the No Time peanut butter base with alternate slices of banana and gherkin and a whole chocolate frosted hamburger in the center…

“It’s a normal half and half. Yours is the Texas Tough Guy half.” Peter pointed at the side with all the jalapeno peppers and the brisket. The hot sauce was already making Mike’s eyes water, just a little, so he knew it was good. And it was. They lounged against the couch, stuffing their faces. Mike suddenly laughed.

“D’you remember when Davy said he was feeling randy, and Micky pitched a fit and tried to punch him?”

“Because…he was dating a chick called Randy at the time…” Peter frowned, trying to—

“And he didn’t know randy’s British for horny!” Mike spluttered, finding it hilarious. He held out a slice of his pizza for Peter to try, then fetched him a glass of water when he wheezed and coughed and stuck his tongue out.

“Now what?” Mike queried when the pizza pie was devoured and the box practically licked clean.

“Oh, we turn on the TV and settle in for an argument over which soaps and dramas to watch.” Peter swung to his feet and switched on the set. “Like, _Days of our Lives_ or _General Hospital_? _The Nurses_ or _The Edge of Night_?”

“ _Dark Shadows_ or _The Secret Storm_?” Mike added, catching on.

“What?” Peter was aghast. “ _Dark Shadows_ , of course. There’s no argument there, Michael!”

“And then what?” Mike fluffed up their nest of blankets, patting it invitingly. He slipped his borrowed T-shirt off, even more invitingly, he hoped.

“Oh, then because we both want to screw the other, we’re going to have to make a pointless bet, so the winner gets the right to fuck the other.”

“Not so pointless then,” Mike observed. “And it’s gonna be me, you. Deep and long, and real slow, with you on your hands and knees.”

“Or me you, spooning you, us on our sides,” Peter countered, making himself comfortable. “So, a wager. Right. Who’s gonna see Nurse Thorpe and Doctor Alexander kissing in the supply closet this episode? I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be Doctor Alexander’s jealous younger brother, who’ll—”

“Peter, I never saw the show before, so I don’t have a clue!” Mike yelped.

With a, “What a pity…for you,” Peter settled them both down, him spooning Mike.

They were already making out by the first commercial break, which was when Peter whispered that whatever they did, they should wake up early tomorrow morning—he had an idea about the roof…

Mike sighed. “I love ’versaries. So the next one’s six months? That’s gonna be a big one. And don’t you go sassing about any other big ones.” He grabbed Peter’s hand, where Peter had gone to cup him, his lips open to make the joke. “Aww don’t pout, baby. _Babe!_ ” He pushed Peter’s protruding lower lip in. “Okay, fine. Go ahead and make your joke.”

He lay back, knowing he could deny Peter nothing, and…as happy about that as Peter was. So, six months would bring them to early January. Plenty of time for Mike to arrange their next ’versary surprise…unless Peter got there first.


End file.
